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by Hayseed Socrates
Summary: This began as an Episode Tag to 5.22 Red John's Rules as a writing experiment in 2nd person narrative, as told from Jane's POV. Jane is desperate to protect Lisbon, and takes some drastic measures. He devises a plan, but not one she will approve of. The conclusion, Rematch, is up now. Has Jane finally alienated Lisbon, and if so, how can he deal with that? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

I do not own any of these wonderful characters, and I'm merely playing with them in a nonprofit manner. No copyright infringement is intended.

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You shatter the CD into pieces just as it has shattered you, and you turn to stare out the window. You need to look away - anywhere except at Lisbon.

You're avoiding her eyes because you're afraid of what she will see. That you're in danger of falling apart. That you worry you can't keep her safe any better than you kept Annie and Charlotte safe.

You let a huge sigh escape as you struggle to maintain control, using every biofeedback technique you have at your disposal. It's the only thing keeping you from screaming right now.

Just when you thought you had a real shot at catching the bastard. You had it narrowed down to seven people. Seven. You were _so_ sure you finally had the upper hand. You included Lisbon because you dared to hope that this might actually be the end. That together, you might be able to stop him.

_Great job, genius_, you chide yourself sarcastically. In reality, all you've accomplished is to paint a big fat target on the back of the only person who really matters to you.

That panicky thought spurs your heart rate upward, and you have to work hard to get control again. Slow down. Deep breaths, slow, deep breaths. Now more than ever, you know you must keep your wits about you, or _everything_ will be lost. Most of what you thought you knew is shifting under your feet, undermining your confidence.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lisbon rise and walk toward you. You feel the weight of her good hand on your shoulder, and she says words she couldn't possibly be certain of, just because she knows you need to hear them.

"We'll get him. Somehow."

Her touch has upset your delicate equilibrium and you inhale sharply. You're sure she can feel you trembling. Suddenly, your insular despair overwhelms you in a tremendous wave, and you turn around and wrap your arms around this precious woman in a fierce, desperate hug.

You can feel her warmth, her breath in your ear, the steady beat of her heart against your chest - and you hold on for dear life, soaking up her courage like a sponge.

"I'm sorry," you whisper in apology, your voice husky with emotion. You don't know what else to say. You despise yourself for putting her in danger. You're sorry for the life you led, for failing your family, for making Lisbon's life difficult so many times over. You're sorry for so very, very much.

"No," she says gently. "This is not your fault."

Maybe not completely, but you know that this maniac is going to start killing more people just because of their connection to you. And that crushing dread has pushed you very close to the edge. You recall all too well where that edge is and what it feels like to experience the helpless shame of falling over.

"We're going to get him," she reiterates her gallant promise, and though her claim may be foolish, it blunts your anxiety and offers you the whiff of hope that you need. You know she must be bewildered and frightened, and yet here she is, holding you together. _Maybe it _is_ still possible for us to catch this monster_, you reflect.

Your shaking gradually subsides and you release her tiny frame, cautiously allowing your eyes to meet hers. You hope she sees the enormous gratitude in your gaze, because words would feel flimsy and inadequate.

You can see in her eyes that she is ready and willing to take this on, and so you know you must, too. In this moment, you realize the bond between you and this remarkable woman may be undefined, but it is also undeniable. There is only one way you can respond to her, so you manage a small smile of pure bravado and agree.

"We have to."

"We can do this," she assures you one more time. You know she's trying to convince herself as well, and you are humbled and inspired by her bravery. You have no idea how Red John deduced your list, but you begin to go over the possibilities in your head. You know there must be a logical answer. There's no such thing as psychics. Of that, you remain sure.

"We need a plan," you state quietly. There is much more to be said between the two of you, but this is not the time. There is work to be done.

She nods. Just then, her phone vibrates in her pocket and she checks the ID. "Bertram." You see panic rise within her and then she shakes it off and answers calmly, "Director Bertram." She pauses, listening, and then she replies, "I'll be there in twenty minutes," and snaps her phone shut.

"What does he want this late?" you ask. It's nearly five-thirty.

"It's about an old case." Her relief is palpable.

"I'll be back in the morning," she tells you. "We'll figure out something. A plan."

"Okay," you agree as you both move toward the door.

"I'll be back," she repeats as you let her out of your attic. When she is gone, you slide the door shut and lean back against it, thinking. Thinking about your options.

It doesn't take long for you to reach a very important conclusion. You know this hunt may require several plans before it is over, but there is one alternative you realize you _must _have – the one plan you cannot share with Teresa.

Spurred by a sudden sense of purpose, you pull out your phone and make a call. You ask Grace to find you some numbers of suspects you've interviewed over the last month, and you're thankful she doesn't ask why.

You must assume now that the walls of the CBI have eyes and ears, so you go out and buy four clean phones. Then you pick a secluded outdoor table at a coffee shop and begin. You start through the list, and on your fifth call, you hit pay dirt with a man who was a suspect in a case quite recently.

"Hi Gary, Patrick Jane here. Remember me? I'm the guy over at CBI who got that agent to cut you lose after you got picked up a couple of weeks ago. " You listen to his question. "Yeah, that evil little woman cop," you confirm, and you grin in spite of everything. It only takes him a moment to place you.

"Yes, I'm the dude with the vested suit, but I don't think it's all_ that_ out of style," you say defensively. He thanks you for "springing him," and wastes no time in asking what you want now.

"Where would a man go, hypothetically, if he were to, say, want to obtain a handgun? On the down low. Say, a nine millimeter - maybe a SIG Sauer 228? Hypothetically." You know that's the kind of gun Cho uses, so it must be good.

Gary allows he might know a man you could talk to and even offers to set it up. He calls back in under five minutes and tells you to be in the parking lot of Fallon's Classy Lady Lounge at one am with eight bills, and reminds you they don't take credit cards.

_A real wit, that one_, you shake your head. But, he's giving you what you need, so you withhold any pithy comments that cross your mind. "Thanks, Gary. I'll be in a vintage blue Citroën."

"A what?" he asks you.

"He'll recognize it," you assure the man, and neither of you bothers to say goodbye.

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It's a hot, windy night in Sacramento, and it takes you about thirty minutes to get to your destination. The address is a fair distance out of town. Finally you see the neon sign, and you ease the Citroën into the gravel parking lot of the Classy Lady Lounge, a ramshackle wooden structure with no windows. The bass laden music must be deafening on the inside, you note, and you sincerely doubt there's a classy lady within miles.

Your windows are down and the gravel pops underneath your tires as you guide the car all the way through a parking space, just in case this is some sort of set up and you need to leave in a hurry. There are several cars in the parking lot of the seedy looking establishment, but all the patrons appear to be inside enjoying the "entertainment."

You let the car idle while you wait. In a couple of minutes, a man in hooded sweatshirt appears from behind the building and casually makes his way toward your car. He's carrying a small gym bag, and he greets you with a question.

"You Mister Vest?" he asks, and peers in to see that you are indeed dressed in a vested suit.

"Yep, that's me."

He wastes no time. "Eight hundred cash. Not a SIG - fresh out of those. Glock 26 – nice piece."

"That'll do," you assure him, because that's the gun Lisbon uses. He hands you the bag and you pull out the gun and check the action. You satisfy yourself that everything appears to be in good working order. "Ammo?" you ask.

"Threw in a box of hollow points. Call me f*cking Santa Claus."

You rummage around in the bag and locate the box. "That'll do fine," you nod. "Merry Christmas."

You count out the money in the car below the level of the door, so he can see it, but no onlooker could. You fold the eight hundreds and slip them into his hand, and then he ambles away while you put the car in drive and slowly make your way back out onto the pavement. You smell beer and sweat and depravity as you pass the open front door of the club, and the throbbing beat of the music dies away gradually as you hit the main highway back toward Sacramento.

When you get back to the city, you stop in a deserted grocery store parking lot. You pull out the piece and inspect it more carefully. It's in good shape, and the grip feels cold in your hand. You load and safety it, and hide it carefully underneath your seat, where it will stay.

Back at CBI, you return to your attic, but you're calmer now. You know that if worse comes to worse, there's one sure way you can protect Teresa Lisbon from Red John. Because the only reason he would kill Lisbon, is to hurt you.

"I'll always save you," you told her once, and you intend to keep your promise. You failed Angela and Charlotte. You will not fail Teresa, even if it means not getting your revenge. With this knowledge, you're able to drop off into a fitful sleep until a knock on your door awakens you. You squint into the morning light, and realize it's her.

You slide back the door to reveal a freshly determined Lisbon, folder in hand. "Good morning, Jane," she says as she whisks by you. "I've got an idea!" You smile to yourself at her tenacity. She has already spread her papers over your desk and she calls to you impatiently, "Come on, Jane, look at this."

You approach her and catch her eye, rolling yours around to tell her you're not sure who might be listening or watching. "Lisbon, I can't do this on an empty stomach, can you? Let's go get some eggs!" you suggest with gusto.

She catches your subtext and agrees, gathering her papers. "Yeah, I'm starved, too." You note yet again what a terrible liar she is. Your hand at her back guides her out the attic door.

Outside the air is cooler this morning – it's a lovely day and you take a deep breath in appreciation. Eggs with Lisbon suddenly sounds marvelous.

"We'll get him," she told you yesterday, and she wasn't lying. Buoyed by her stubborn resolve, you're beginning to believe it again yourself.

And if not, you think of your last resort in the floorboard of the Citroën, and you know you can at least keep her safe.

"How about Carol's Diner?" you ask cheerily. You know it's her favorite.

She reads your sideways "thank you" and her smile is genuine as she flips her hair and accepts, "Sounds great."

You _will _catch him. You have to.

The End.

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I'm curious as to whether my experiment in second person Jane worked for you as a reader. Any constructive comments would be appreciated as I'm trying hard to improve my writing. Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2 Stalemate

I don't own The Mentalist. No copyright infringement is intended. Thanks Mr. Heller.

**A/N: Huge thanks to the folks who were kind enough to give me their thoughts about the first chapter. Hearing about what you liked or didn't like helps me improve my writing. I've had fun trying something out of my comfort zone, so I'm going to keep going with this and see it to its conclusion before Season 6 starts. (it's a long summer, isn't it?)**

**I know this chapter is heavy, but things _will_ get better if you hang in there, I promise. **

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A mere week later, the killing starts. A call comes in and it's obvious by the look on Lisbon's face. The team listens as she outlines the case - a Jane Doe, cut in typical Red John style. The body was discovered a couple of hours southeast of Sacramento, beside a lake.

You know in a flash of dread where it must be. Lisbon is quick to pick up on your anxiety, but thankfully she asks you no questions. You're relieved when the rest of the team takes a second vehicle to the scene. The seat belt clicks as you buckle into the passenger seat beside her, and she starts plugging the address into the GPS.

"Don't bother."

"What? Why?"

"I know where this is. Don Pedro Lake." Sure enough, a second later the screen flashes up a large blue form with that label.

"How did you know?" she asks cautiously.

"My wife and I used to picnic there." You look away, out the side window. "Before we were married."

"Oh God, Jane."

"Yeah."

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The location of the crime scene is exactly where you feared it would be. It's a gorgeous spot beside the deep blue lake, with enormous oaks dotting the grassy inclines rising from the water's edge. You half expect to smell the barbequed chicken sandwiches that Annie used to pack for your picnics here. You've dined, skinny dipped, and made love in this place, napping afterward on these sun warmed banks. How did he know?

The lakeshore area is crawling with local cops and the chief walks up the slope to greet your team. He is young, freshfaced, and shaken - clearly not yet accustomed to such macabre brutality, but he gets straight to the point when Teresa steps forward to introduce herself, "Agent Lisbon. "

"Agent," he nods. "She's still a Jane Doe. My people haven't been able to find any identification so far. Let us know what we can do – we want to help anyway we can. This is the work of a monster." He shakes his head in horror. He never wants to see this kind of evil again, and you know how he feels.

Lisbon thanks him and you walk with her down the hill to see the body of a thirty something woman, cut in the characteristic Red John pattern. Beside her is a desk sized granite boulder with a red smiley face drawn on it. The blazing morning sun has already made the air thick with the scent of congealed blood.

When you see the woman's face, your stomach flips and you close your eyes. Lisbon, of course, notices. "Jane?"

"Her name is Caroline O'Malley – or it used to be," you state, and you meet Lisbon's eyes, telling her just how bad this is. "She has on a wedding ring."

The rest of the team exchange glances amongst themselves. They want an explanation, but you can't bring yourself to offer one just yet. You walk down to the water's edge where the air is fresher and you can breathe a little easier. A few minutes later, Lisbon joins you. "What's the story?" she asks gently.

"Her mother used to run the duck pond booth on the midway," you explain.

Lisbon frowns, not understanding.

"You know. The little pools at the carnival where you pay money and lift up the ducks? If you lift up the marked one, you get a prize."

"Oh, yeah" she nods.

"I haven't seen her in years. Her mother's name is Bernadette O'Malley. They joined the circuit when I was a teenager and she was just…" you shrug heavily and sigh, "…just a cute little kid. Bolinger – the guy who worked the pony rides – used to let her ride the ponies that were out of rotation as long as I would lead them for her. She loved that. I think she thought of me as a kind of big brother."

You swallow hard, realizing that a mere association with you has cost this woman her life. Somewhere out there, there's a man whose wife has been taken from him, and maybe children left without a mother as well. A familiar, helpless rage wells up within you.

Lisbon must sense your boiling outrage, because she does something she almost never does. She reaches out to you in public, in view of the team. Her hand on your shoulder is like a touchstone, and you manage to control your urge to cry out, to punch something. Anything.

Later that evening, you and Teresa are sitting in the attic, and you are able to cross both McAlister and Stiles off the list. Just five men are left as possibilities, and you look at each other with a guarded optimism.

"So, two ducks have no prize on the bottom," you note.

"Oh my God. Do you think…" she asks in horror.

"Yes, I do."

Bertram, Haffner, Reede, Partridge, or Kirkland. It is one of them. How many more people will have to die before you can name the right man? Before you turn over the right duck?

The investigation reveals no further clues, and so you must wait.

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Ten days later, the second call comes. The body is in a home in Sacramento, and SacPD has wasted no time getting your team involved. You follow Lisbon through a lovely English style garden into the neat clapboard house, and you blanch when you see who it is. Marsha Pittman. The girl who worked in the flower shop where you bought flowers for your wife. Marsha was a bubbly, cheerful girl who always made sure to make up something special for you. You wonder absently when she moved to Sacramento. Partridge is working this case and seems annoyed when nobody bothers to ask him whether he thinks it's Red John, which he does. It's obvious to everyone concerned, even him.

That evening in the attic you and Lisbon are unable to rule out a single suspect as a result of this latest killing. That realization is heavy and depressing, and you wonder silently if you're doing the right thing by waiting.

Because of you and your hunt, innocent people are being butchered. It would be a stalemate if you ended this chess game now, but at least fewer of your pieces would be taken. Reason prevails, because you understand he would not stop killing altogether - other people would surely die later, just not the people you know. So you decide to sit and wait, fervently hoping you can still win.

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Time stretches on, and nothing out of the ordinary happens for three weeks. Then word comes about another killing, this time down in Malibu. The real estate agent who sold you your house is dead, carved up by Red John in her own home. As in the previous case, you and Lisbon cannot eliminate a single suspect as a result of this murder. You're not sure how much more of this you can take.

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More than two weeks pass after the Malibu case. It's a quiet Tuesday morning and you're reading a book on your couch when you notice Lisbon walk into the bullpen. She's looking straight at you. The other team members duck their heads, instantly reading her demeanor, understanding that this must be very bad news indeed. You rise from your seat and walk toward her, somehow aware that you're going to have to keep walking once she speaks.

When you get to Lisbon's side you pause and steel yourself. You eyes meet hers and you see nothing but compassion. She hesitates for a moment, and then delivers the blow quietly.

"Sophie Miller," she whispers.

You lower your head as you walk rapidly into the men's room and lurch into a stall, barely making it in time before your stomach starts to heave.

"Everybody out!" Teresa's voice rings out over your retching, but there's no one in here but you. She comes on in and quickly thinks to get you some wet towels to wipe your face. Kind Teresa. Sweet, kind Teresa. You've never loved her more than you do at this moment. She's managed to do the only thing that could possibly help you right now.

Eventually there is nothing left for you to bring up, and you rise, wiping your clammy face with a towel. You straighten your jacket, take a deep breath and get yourself under control before speaking. "Let's go. Let's go to the scene."

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks in disbelief.

"Never better," you say with a cold half smile. "We need to make sure he hasn't made a mistake, Lisbon. Left us a clue." You want to exhaust every possibility before you take the next step – before you proceed with the only option you have left.

You and the team find no clues or helpful evidence at the scene, but when you meet with Lisbon that evening, you are able to cross Reede Smith off the list. "We've got it down to four," she notes, trying hard to cheer you. She has no idea of what you're thinking now, of course. That you cannot wait any longer, because you know she is next. Because every happy memory you've made in the last ten years involves her.

Instead you nod, faking an optimistic smile as she gets ready to leave for the evening. You realize this may be your last chance, so you pull her in for a hug, and it makes you ridiculously happy that she hugs you back. Really hugs you. There's no one looking, after all. You don't speak because you don't want to tell her any more lies, and you cannot tell the truth – neither your next step nor how much you love her.

The instant she is gone, you start to review your plan. The one you never wanted to use, but have kept as a last resort. You'll need tomorrow to get everything ready and set things into motion, and then you must proceed.

You get out a piece of paper and start writing your goodbye to Teresa Lisbon.

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Bright and early the next morning, you duck into JJ LaRoche's office.

"Patrick. What brings _you_ here?"

"Hello, JJ. I have a favor to ask of you. As a friend."

"Ahhh," he eyes you suspiciously. "Is it illegal?"

"Not at all."

"What is it, then?"

"I need for you to get Lisbon up here to your office tomorrow at about eleven thirty, and keep her here until well after lunch. Manufacture some issue. Ask for her advice on a case. Anything. But don't let her out of your door until, say, at least one thirty. And when you do let her go, give her this."

You show LaRoche a sealed envelope labeled simply 'Teresa Lisbon.' "Just tell her I asked you to give it to her and that she should open it later."

"What's your game here, Patrick?"

"Umm. Can't tell you that." You flash him a big grin. "But I assure you, your part in this is simply to keep Lisbon safe."

He looks at you long and hard for several seconds, and then sighs. "Very well. Give me the envelope."

"Thank you, JJ," you say, and then add sincerely, "You're a good friend." He looks a little stunned as you make a speedy exit.

Next you find Cho, and manage to get him out of the CBI building into a nearby coffee shop. "Cho, I need a favor." He narrows his eyes in protest and you raise a hand. "Nothing shady. I promise."

"What then?"

"I need for you to keep a close eye on Lisbon through tomorrow. Keep her safe."

"Why?"

"Well," you shrug, insinuating it must be obvious.

"You think she's next on Red John's list."

You nod. "Yes. I _know_ she is."

He is silent for a moment. Cho's a smart cop. He may very well have some inkling of what you have planned. "She's not going to like this," he notes.

"No, she's not."

Cho doesn't change his impassive stare, but after a few seconds, he says, "Okay."

You know he will do what you have asked.

The rest of the morning you spend lying on your couch in the bullpen, trying to make your behavior look no different from any other day's. Meanwhile, you go over the plan in your head.

Tonight, after everyone leaves, you will pack up your things and tidy the attic. For Cho, you will leave the box of books and the extra set of keys to the Citroen. Rigsby and Van Pelt get an envelope containing a check for $30K – a nice little down payment on a new house, with a yard for Ben, perhaps? Everything else goes to Teresa.

Your will is one of the things you've left in your CBI gym locker, along with the letter you wrote to her. The key to that locker is in the envelope you've entrusted to LaRoche. Your estate is worth about three million plus the house, which should sell for three more, even in this market. Money isn't very important to Lisbon, and you know what you're about to do will hurt her deeply, but she's a survivor.

Maybe she'll find the love she so richly deserves. Maybe she'll even have a child, or adopt. You hope for the best, but in the end, you simply have no other choice. You cannot let her come to harm at Red John's hand if you can prevent it.

Tomorrow morning you'll come in early and feign sleep on the couch. Once you know Lisbon has seen you (and therefore will not wonder where you are, at least until lunchtime), you will make a beeline for the Citroen and head to Malibu. It's the only fitting place for this. It's a six hour drive and you can be there by easily by two o'clock. (Lisbon can't start looking for you until after LaRoche lets her out.) Then you'll call in a "gunshot heard" to the local cops, and it won't take long for them to find your house.

News will travel fast to the CBI, and there will even be plenty of time for the incident to be carried on the evening news, just in case. Red John will hear of it, and then Teresa will be safe. Red John will have to be satisfied with a stalemate rather than a win.

About noon, your belly (apparently unconcerned about this whole situation) starts to growl. Time to visit the CBI café one last time. You're putting a ham and swiss sandwich on your tray when you catch the conversation behind you.

"Hey, look here, Brad." The man points at the chalkboard where the week's lunch specials are posted. "Tomorrow's special is chili verde. Better give Partridge a call."

"Oh yeah, that little dude loves the stuff. Says it reminds him of a place he used to eat. Maybe we'll get our forensics reports a little faster if we do him a favor, right?" the man called Brad laughs.

"Yeah, can't hurt."

Brad takes out his phone and punches the screen. "Hey, Brett. How ya doin'? Just letting you know that they're having that chili verde you like so much tomorrow up here at the CBI café." He pauses to listen. "Yeah, thought you'd want some of that. See you tomorrow."

Suddenly, you know. And you smile.


	3. Chapter 3 - Kotov Syndrome

The Mentalist characters do not belong to me, and I am playing with them for fun, not profit. They belong to Mr. Heller, and no copyright infringement is intended.

**AN: A massive thank you to all the reviewers, and especially the guests who I cannot thank personally. You make this so much more fun. Sorry about the delay in the update but I've been on vacation. Luckily I got some writing done on the plane rides. This chapter is a bit wordy, but Jane has a lot of 'splainin' to do. The action picks up near the end.**

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"You _have_ changed. " That's what Danny Ruskin told you a few years back, and he was right.

Ten years ago if you'd found out the identity of Red John, it would have been simple. Follow him home and kill him. And if that were your only option now, you might still do it, consequences be damned. But a lot of things have happened in those ten years. You've shot and killed the "wrong" man. You've seen the results of Lorelei's solo attempt to destroy him. You've formed…attachments.

You've also learned a lot more _about _the madman. How important it is for him to be the smartest guy in the room, for instance. How he likes to orchestrate and control things. That he has no fear of being punished when he dies. That it would be a mistake to underestimate him.

Now all of these things factor into your decision about how to proceed, and by the end of the afternoon, you've concocted a plan. Red John has been plotting this succession of killings for a good long while, and you're quite sure he has a plan for Lisbon coming up in a week or two. So you must force his hand – take the luxury of time to think away from him. In chess it's called Kotov syndrome. Basically, when pushed for time, even the most intricate planner can make a blunder.

If he has time to think, he might figure this out easily. He might outsmart you or see through your plan. Your best shot is to put him under time pressure, and hope that in his haste, he will make that mistake. You're counting on his need to prove himself superior to be his undoing.

First you talk to the team members one by one, so as not to arouse suspicion. Cho has to run down a lead this afternoon, and you offer to accompany him. The moment you get into the car, he knows something is up.

"Cho, I've devised a better plan." His tiny smile of relief lets you know he understood the first one. "But your job is still to keep Lisbon safe. It's just more complicated. Now I know who he is, you see."

"Okay." Cho keeps his eyes on the road and doesn't ask.

"Tomorrow morning, both Van Pelt and I will leave discreetly – first her and then me. You don't know where we are. That's not unusual, after all," you shrug. "LaRoche will call Lisbon into his office about eleven thirty and he is supposed to keep her there for a couple of hours. That part of the plan is unchanged.

Brett Partridge will come looking for me about noon." Cho glances briefly at you with a hint of surprise, and quickly returns his eyes to the road. "If he asks you, tell him you saw me about ten and don't know where I am. After he talks to Rigsby, I think he will leave. That's Rigsby's job – your concern is Lisbon and Lisbon only.

She should be out of her meeting about one thirty. Be there no matter what time she comes out. Explain that I have a play in motion, and that she should give you the envelope that LaRoche gave her. I'd rather she not use that key to my locker." Cho will work out why. "Then you two drive to Malibu to my house. Tell her I wouldn't give you all the details of the plan other than that, but that she should trust me."

"She'll try to call you." He says as he stops at a red light.

"I won't be answering my phone, so let her know that's part of the plan. Very important – if Lisbon comes out of that office early and figures out where I am, you MUST not let her leave CBI early. If you all beat Partridge to Malibu, the plan is ruined. Do whatever it takes. If worse comes to worse tell her if she shows up too early it will get us all killed, which might be true. She'll be mad. Blame it on me."

"I will."

You grin. Kimball Cho is a treasure.

"And remember, Grace will be with me at my house, so don't come in with guns a'blazing. One last thing. If Partridge should try to get Lisbon out of that meeting, don't let him. Tell him it's a personal matter and you've been instructed not to interrupt for any reason. Don't let him anywhere _near_ Lisbon." You know Cho understands why. He's the best team member for this job because you're dead sure he will not let anything happen to Teresa.

"Got it." His impassive face gives no further reaction to the fact that he now knows who Red John is, and you're impressed with his stoicism.

"Thanks, Cho."

"Just make sure this works," he replies and you nod. You have every intention of doing just that. He drops you off back at the CBI without further discussion.

On to the next step. You take Rigsby out for a coffee and sit down with him on a park bench.

"Rigsby, I have a plan that will catch Red John tomorrow. Are you in?" Unlike Cho, he reacts. "Seriously?" he blurts out. His eyes are wide with shock and disbelief.

"Seriously."

He takes measure of you and realizes that you mean it. "I'm in. Totally," he agrees even before he hears the plan. These last few killings have made the team nearly as zealous in their desire to catch Red John as you are.

"Treat tomorrow as a normal day. Grace will leave about nine thirty and you will not notice. I will leave a little later without mentioning where I'm going. Let me. About noon, Brett Partridge should appear and ask where I am."

Rigsby inelegantly spits his coffee into the bushes beside the park bench. His face is a question asking, _He's Red John?!_

_"_Yes."

"Holy shit."

"You will tell the truth – that you last saw me about ten, and suggest that he look up in my attic. He will, and of course I won't be there, so he will come back and ask where Lisbon is. He will likely be upset, but do _not_ appear to take notice. Just tell him Lisbon is in a meeting with LaRoche about something important and she won't be back 'til the afternoon."

Rigsby wipes his hand over his face. He is confused as to where this is all leading, but he waits patiently for you to lay it all out. You take note of a grape juice stain on his right shirtsleeve and it reminds you why this is the best job for Rigsby. Ben needs a father.

"If he asks about Cho, tell him he's around somewhere, which he will be. If he asks where Grace is, tell him you think she's in the bathroom. Then just go back to your work, and don't give him the impression his questions or behavior are anything out of the ordinary.

In a few minutes, Partridge will leave the building, get in his car, and drive away. Follow him, but stay out of sight. You must not be seen, even if you lose him. If things go to plan, he will be headed to Malibu to my house. The address is 1533 Live Oak Meadows Road. Call me when he's on his way on this phone." Rigsby accepts the burner phone you've purchased for this purpose.

"When you get nearly to my house, park down the road from the driveway and do not approach - just wait there. Grace will be inside with me, and if things go well, we'll have him without requiring any assistance. We'll call if we need you. I know it will be hard for you, but _you must wait_," you emphasize. "We have to get evidence on tape first. Understood?"

"Yes," he nods enthusiastically.

"Now here's the hard part. You cannot tell Lisbon any of this, no matter what."

He frowns, and doubt clouds his face. "Rigsby, her life may depend on this point," you say forcefully. "Do you understand? Red John would not hesitate to use her against me."

He knows this is the harsh truth, and in a second, he nods. "I won't tell her," he agrees.

"Good. Thank you, Wayne. With a little luck this will all be over soon." Rigsby's expression brightens considerably at that thought.

Van Pelt is the only one left to convince, and that doesn't take long at all. Her role is perhaps the most important and the most difficult, and she is eager to take on the challenge. She only places one condition on her participation and you agree. It was already part of your plan anyway.

That evening, you proceed just as if you were going to carry out your original, more somber plan. The attic is tidied and your parting gifts rest neatly and obviously on the table. The opened box of hollow point bullets sits casually in full view on top of the books in the box for Cho. Partridge needs to see those. You consider the papers that are sitting in your gym locker – the ones for Lisbon in the event of your death. You certainly don't want her to see them tomorrow, but getting the key back from LaRoche turned out to be impossible. He was tied up in meetings all afternoon, and calling him after hours might have alerted some Red John "spy" to an irregularity. There must be no clues, no red flags. Partridge must buy completely that you have quietly gone home to end your life on your own terms.

If things go as planned, Cho will get the key and Lisbon will never see what's in the locker anyway. You're going to have to hope that's the way it goes – it is a risk you must take. Tomorrow morning must look as ordinary as possible.

You go over the entire plan one more time, making sure you have the necessary equipment. Ten years of pursuit are about to boil down to one crucial day. An illogical calmness settles over you and to your surprise, sleep comes easily.

Z Z Z Z

You're stretched out on the couch when Lisbon arrives the next morning. Some relaxation techniques are necessary to mask your excitement and ensure that nothing in your demeanor suggests anything out of the ordinary.

"Morning, Jane." She makes a special trip over to your couch. She's been treating you with kid gloves the last couple of days since Sophie's murder. There's an unspoken "Are you okay?" in the concerned lilt of her voice.

You open one eye. "Good morning, Lisbon."

She correctly interprets your "I don't want to talk about it now" tone, and accepts your generic reply with resignation.

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. "Good morning, LaRoche." She listens for a few seconds. "Yes, I can meet you today." Another pause. "Eleven thirty? Yes, sure. I'll be there." She's a bit puzzled by the exchange and she shrugs as she turns on her heel toward her office.

The play is in motion now. This isn't the best plan you've ever hatched – it contains an awful lot of assumptions. But if things fall together as they should, it will be successful. You're confident that the element of surprise will work in your favor. And you will have him. You will have Red John by the end of this day.

A trip to get a cup of tea is your only activity of the morning. Just as planned, Grace leaves her desk about nine thirty, leaving her jacket on her chair and her computer open. She doesn't acknowledge anyone as she leaves.

At ten you rise and stretch, and stroll out of the bullpen, meeting Cho and Rigsby's eyes on the way out. They are ready. When you reach the parking lot, you amble out to the Citroen and get in. A glance in the rear view mirror shows a form lying in the backseat, but you say nothing. Not until you are on the freeway do you speak.

"You okay back there, Grace?"

"Yup, I'm fine. Wish I was a few inches shorter, though."

"Sorry about the cramped space, but with Red John's connections, we can't risk your being seen in my car by anyone.

"I know. I get it. I'll be fine."

"In the brown bag on the floorboard there are some sandwiches."

"Thanks, but I'm not sure I can eat."

"Steady there, Van Pelt. No need to be nervous." You talk a good game.

Everything _is_ in order, though. You have two recorders, your gun, and the Kevlar vest that Van Pelt has insisted on. The miles pass more quickly than you expected and soon it is time. At seven minutes to twelve, you reach for your phone.

"Here goes, Grace. Time to bait the trap." The text message you send to Brett Partridge consists of one word. _Stalemate._ "Now we wait."

"You're sure he will respond the way you think he will?"

"95% sure. And if I'm wrong, which I'm not, Brett Partridge just gets a weird text message," you chuckle. "Hey Grace, would you hand me a ham and swiss, please?"

There is the rustle of paper in the back floorboard as Van Pelt advances you a sandwich from the back seat. A couple of bites in, you realize you were a bit generous with the mustard. You can only allow yourself a few sips of water, because there's no stopping built into your plan. You must drive straight to your house in Malibu.

Thirty minutes later you're starting to worry, but relief comes when the burner phone finally rings.

"RIgsby?"

"Hey, Jane. It happened just like you said. Partridge came looking for you. He went up to your attic, and then came in the bullpen and asked the questions like you predicted he would. I told him the last time I saw you was about ten. He asked about Lisbon, and Cho told him he could catch her when she got out of her meeting with LaRoche. He seemed really annoyed when I asked if I could help him instead. Then he wanted to know where Van Pelt was and I told him the bathroom – he totally bought it.

After that, Partridge stood out in the hallway and made a couple of phone calls. From the look of things, someone told him something he didn't want to hear. He was really upset. Then sure enough, he hurried out to his car. I'm on the road now, a few minutes behind him."

"Perfect. Keep out of sight."

"Will do." He pauses a minute and then asks, "So this means Partridge has to be Red John, right?"

"Yes, it does."

"So he was under our noses the whole time."

"Yes. Strange, isn't it? Just for the record, I never liked him." There's the sound of laughter from the back seat. "No more calls unless he changes course, okay Rigsby?"

"Got it."

You pitch the burner phone on the passenger seat and smile.

"So it's working? He's on his way?" Van Pelt asks.

"Yes, he must have located my phone and he's starting about two hours behind us."

"Wow." She pauses. "Jane?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"Thank you. For trusting me with this, I mean."

"You're a good agent, Grace. You're also the person Red John – or should I call him Brett – is most likely to dismiss as a threat to him. Underestimating an agent because she happens to be young and a woman will be his most costly mistake. "

"I'll make sure of that," she assures you confidently.

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..

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You and Van Pelt arrive at your house a few minutes before six, and as per the plan, Grace stays down in the backseat. You open the front door to the house and carry in a few items, leaving your car door open. You doubt that he has called in someone local to watch your house, but it is possible. Ten minutes later, Grace crawls out behind some bushes, sneaks around the house, and you let her in the back entrance, out of view. Then you go back out front to your car, get a few more items, and close the door to the Citroen. When you reenter to the house, you leave your front door unlocked.

"It's a beautiful house," Grace says as she climbs the stairs behind you, but she stifles a gasp as you enter the bedroom and she sees the face above the mattress.

"I forgot you'd never been here," you say apologetically, but she has already recovered her composure. Van Pelt is a lot tougher than she looks.

There's not a lot of time, so you start setting up immediately. "Here's the closet." You open the slatted doors and show her the inside. "There's plenty of room and it's easy to see through these doors. My daughter used to hide in here and surprise me…" A pang of regret constricts your throat for a moment and you have to pause.

_Focus_, you remind yourself. "I'll be here, on the mattress. You can see and hear everything from there in the closet. You use one of these recorders and I'll have the other under a piece of cloth or something here on the mattress. We have to get evidence. It's imperative that you not move too soon. The cue word is 'Charlotte.' When we have enough on the recording, I'll use it and you can step out and arrest him."

You don't mention that with any luck at all, he'll be armed and move to take a shot at you when the trap is sprung. Hopefully he'll hit the vest, and Van Pelt will take him down.

"Okay, let's get set up. Remember, Grace, I have to make this look good or he won't buy it. I have to sell that I'm about to shoot myself and it's not going to be pretty. It's part of the act."

She nods her understanding and begins to ready her closet post.

Now for the hard part. In a different closet there is a cardboard box of mementos. You retrieve a couple of pictures and a baby blanket that will do nicely to cover up the recorder. You grab a couple more items and spread all of these things out on the mattress. Then you duck in the bathroom and put the Kevlar vest under your shirt, making sure it can't be seen.

"We'd best take our places in case Mr. Partridge didn't strictly obey the speed limits." You doubt he'd drive _too_ fast, because if he got pulled over, he could be placed on the way to Malibu, and he's more careful than that. But he will also feel a sense of urgency to get here quickly. He wants to kill you himself – to maintain control – rather than let you do it yourself. You take a seat on the mattress, cover the recorder with the blanket, and raise the Glock to your temple.

"Don't do that!" Van Pelt objects, even though she knows it's not for real.

"I'm just practicing, just in case, Grace. I have to sell that I'm suicidal or he won't talk."

"It's just…"

"Don't worry. We're going to catch Red John tonight, right? You've got your recorder ready?"

"Right."

"No more talking now. And remember, I'm just making this look good."

"Okay."

One of the pictures you've pulled out is of your daughter, dressed to the nines in her fancy dress up play clothes, sipping a pink plastic cup of pretend tea. You remember the day so vividly. Annie was gone to the grocery and you and Charlotte were having a tea party in honor of her toy unicorn's birthday. You'd give anything to hear one of her giggles of delight again.

You pick up the stuffed lavender rabbit beside you – it's faded and dusty now. You won it for Angela on the midway one evening and used that as an opening to ask her out on your first date. You hadn't known she kept it – you'd found it in her dresser drawer after…she was dead. An unexpected tear trails down your cheek. How stupid you were. How arrogant. How….

A familiar sound cuts through your melancholy and you recognize the click of your front door opening. The hair rises on the back of your neck and a shiver runs through you. He drove faster than you thought. You heard no sound of a motor outside, so he must have parked down the street. You clear your throat slightly to signal Van Pelt, who sits waiting, concealed in the closet.

There are soft steps on the stairway and you reach under the blanket to start the recorder. You pull the Glock to rest within reach and allow a leftover tear to fall down your cheek. A wink to Van Pelt, and then you bow your head and stare downward at the mattress.

"Ah, there you are, Patrick," Brett Partridge says as he steps in though the bedroom door, but you don't look up. "I must say I'm disappointed in you. I suppose my work on Dr. Miller was simply too much for you, wasn't it? A fighter, that one. Fun to subdue. Too bad you could do nothing to prevent it."

You can barely control the rage you feel and you want fly up and attack the son of a bitch. Instead, you slowly raise your eyes to look at him, trying to maintain an expression of absolute surrender to melancholy.

Partridge/Red John is pointing a silenced handgun at you, and his eyes are shining with excitement.

"You don't even have the courage to end it, do you, Patrick?"

If only you could just pick up the gun beside you and shoot him. A twitch of your hand near the Glock betrays your thoughts, and Partridge raises his eyebrows in contemplation.

"No, not a coward after all. You thought if you removed yourself from the investigation, I would spare your special little friend, didn't you? Chivalry rather than cowardice." He chuckles. "How quaint. Sadly you won't live to see what a fantastic job I'm going to do on Teresa Lisbon."

You allow yourself to react a little. You want a bit more on record and then you will cue Van Pelt into action. "How many have you killed?" you ask quietly.

"Forty-two!" He lifts himself forward onto his toes when he says it, obviously proud. "And even though you've somehow surmised my identity, you have not a shred of evidence. You still cannot stop me!"

Out of the corner of your eye you see car lights flash in the window. Someone has turned into the driveway , and that can't be good. If Partridge has seen it, he doesn't realize its significance yet. You must keep him focused right here, in this room.

"Please let it end here," you beg, giving him what he wants. "Why take Lisbon when you already have me?"

Partridge's eyes begin to glow wildly. You have his complete attention and he doesn't notice when the lights flash off. Someone has parked out front – most likely Cho and an irate Teresa Lisbon.

"Spare Lisbon, please!" you plead, increasing both his delight and his concentration on the conversation. His admission to killing forty-two people should be adequate. Now is the moment.

"You already took Angela and (you're careful to emphasize the word) _Charlotte_."

"Drop it, Partridge!" Van Pelt barks as she bursts out of the closet. You briefly enjoy the startled look of surprise on his face before guns blaze and you find yourself on your back, looking at the ceiling. In the next instant, the accompanying sensation reaches your brain, and your chest and left side feel like they are on fire.

"Hands behind your back!" she yells toward your left.

You look that way, only to see Partridge sprawled on his side, facing you, a mere four or so feet away. A crimson stain is growing on his chest as Van Pelt sends his gun across the room with a swift kick.

He emits a strangled chuckle. "How poetic, Patrick. We will go together, a brace of rare birds. Kotov's syndrome, right? Clever. You lured me into a stalemate after all."

It takes tremendous effort for you to roll onto your side to face him, and you have to push your pain into a box before you're able to reach down and undo a couple of shirt buttons. You pull your shirt open to reveal the Kevlar vest – a bullet is visible near its center, over your heart.

"Wrong again, Brett. It's checkmate, not stalemate."

Partridge takes in the sight of the vest and his eyes blink first in shock, and then anger. "No! No!" he protests, gasping. "It's not possible…" His voice fades to an accusing whisper. "You preening little bastard."

"You see Brett, I was right all along. You _are_ a sad, tormented little man." You ignore your pain, and flash him a broad grin as you watch the life slowly drain out of his eyes.

Suddenly there is the sound of your front door slamming open and Teresa's voice: "CBI!"

"Up here, Boss!" Van Pelt yells without taking her eyes or her gun off of Partridge. She gives him a little kick with her boot and his dead eyes do not respond. Teresa and Cho clatter up the stairs and burst into the bedroom, weapons drawn.

"It's okay, Boss," Grace assures her. "Partridge is dead."

Cho instantly calls for an ambulance.

"Jane!" Lisbon sounds scared.

"He's got a vest on, Boss."

"Jane has a _vest_ on?" Now she's incredulous.

"We made it a condition – we wouldn't help him otherwise," Grace explains. "We got a confession on tape." She reaches down to check a pulse on Partridge. Confident he is dead, she holsters her gun, and Lisbon and Cho follow her lead. "Cho, there's a recorder over there in the closet."

"Got it," he confirms, holding it up for all to see.

"You have a confession on that?" Lisbon asks.

"Yup. Sure do," Van Pelt confirms. "I tried to arrest him and he fired first."

Finally satisfied the situation is under control, Lisbon addresses you. "Jane, I'm going to strangle you with my bare hands!" She's genuinely, deeply angry and you can hear the raw frustration in her voice. Nothing you hadn't anticipated.

"We did it your way, Lisbon," you inform her, but you have to strain to get out your words as you explain. "We tried to take him alive." There's a dagger like pain in your side and it's becoming rather hard to breathe. You want to turn onto your back so you can see her face, but you know it will hurt like hell. Instead, you say, "There's another recording. Here under the blanket." You motion vaguely underneath you with your free hand.

Cho squats at your side to retrieve it, but his eyes squint with concern at what he discovers. "Jane? Are you hit?"

"He's got his vest on," Van Pelt repeats.

"Then where's all this blood coming from?" Cho asks. "Jane, turn over on your back."

"Do I have to?" You're not entirely sure you want to do that, but Cho eases you that direction anyway. This brings on a new level of misery, just as you expected. You're getting a little lightheaded and you don't like the look on the three faces staring down at your side.

Cho lifts a bloodstained blanket from underneath you and hands the uncovered recorder to Van Pelt. "He must have caught one below the vest." Cho looks grim. Cho is never grim. This is not good.

"My God, Jane, what have you done?" Teresa kneels down beside you, her anger forgotten for the moment. A cough sends a searing pain through you and makes everything look fuzzy and blurred.

"You didn't think this through," she laments.

"Had to move fast," you counter weakly.

"Why couldn't you have included me in this…this…your _stupid_ plan, Jane?"

You manage to reach for her with your hand, and she takes it into hers. She is warm and soft and strong. She is alive. Red John is dead. It was a good plan.

"I could have helped you come up with a better plan, Jane. I'm your partner. Didn't I matter at all in this?" she asks in frustration.

"Don't you see, m'dear?" You meet her eyes and hope she will understand. "You were the thing that mattered the most." A spasm of coughing hits you and everything turns gray, but you can still feel her next to you, squeezing your hand.

You want to tell her how much it helps, but the world floats softly away.

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You might think the drama is over, but I assure you, it's just beginning. LOL The last chapter will explore the Jane/Lisbon conflict over all that has happened, which might get more tense than catching Red John.

If you hated this chapter or enjoyed it, I'd love to hear why. I thought it was a bit wordy, but I couldn't figure out a better way to lay out the plan.


	4. Chapter 4 - Bare King

Disclaimer: Mr. Heller is driving me crazy with the Season 6 spoilers, but he owns these characters and I do not. No copyright infringement is intended.

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AN: Another big thanks to the guests who kindly reviewed but I could not thank personally. I appreciate everyone's thoughts very much. This is a shorter chapter, but there's a fair amount left to tell, and I couldn't see a breaking point after this one. I hope you like it.

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You hear voices, but when you attempt to open your eyes, you find your eyelids are much too heavy to lift. A peaceful, liquid feeling engulfs you, and you're content to simply listen.

"What are you still doing here, Grace?" A male voice. Rigsby. It's Rigsby.

"The boss went to find us a place to sleep tonight, so I said I'd stay here with Jane. I thought he might be awake by now, but he's not. I kinda wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

_Yes, for what?_ you wonder.

"I don't know. If Partridge hadn't gotten off that second shot off as he went down…"

"That's not your fault, Grace. You did everything right. Jane knew there was a risk."

_Yes, you did._

"I know. I'm still sorry, though. Good grief, Wayne, he almost bled to death."

"The doctors say his kidney will be fine and the bleeding has pretty much stopped. And you - _you_ took down Red John." There is unmistakable pride in Rigsby's voice.

Relief floods over you. It really happened – Red John is dead. It wasn't a dream. You ignore the bit about your kidney for the moment.

_"We_ did." She's pleased with herself, as well she should be. "I'm a little ashamed to admit how much I enjoyed seeing Jane show him that vest. If it felt that good to me, I can only imagine how it felt for Jane."

_You have no idea, Grace._

"Yeah, well I just hope the boss simmers down soon," Rigsby counters. "She's really pissed about this. I know she's glad we got Red John and all, but I've never seen her this steamed up. If she's this mad at us, I can only imagine what Jane's gonna face. I hope she lets him get better before she tears him apart."

You're beginning to put everything together. You must be in the hospital, but nothing hurts. Medicated, then. You're on good drugs.

"Maybe it's a good thing that Jane hasn't come around yet. It'll give her a little more time to cool off," Rigsby says.

"You know, I can understand why she's mad. I guess Jane was just being thorough to convince Red John, but holy crap, Wayne. A suicide note? Leaving all that for Lisbon to see? That's pretty cold."

"Cho said Jane hoped the boss would never have to see all that – it was just in case the plan didn't work as expected. Which I guess it didn't. She bailed out of that meeting with LaRoche way too early - just five minutes after I left to follow Partridge - so Cho had to keep her at CBI _somehow._ Jane warned there might be informers watching, so Cho had no choice but to let Lisbon find the stuff in the attic and open the locker, to buy time. After she tracked Jane by his phone and realized where he was headed, Cho explained the plan the minute they were in the car.

_Oh dear, that's not good._ You wish that hadn't been necessary.

Van Pelt agrees reluctantly. "Cho had to do it, I guess, but still. I wonder what Jane wrote? Poor Lisbon."

"Poor Cho, you mean! The boss already ripped him a new one, and I wouldn't want to be Jane when he wakes up," Rigsby chuckles. "I'm just glad you're safe." There's a rustling sound, someone putting on a jacket, perhaps, and Rigsby's voice drops. "So Cho's waiting for me – we're headed back tonight."

"You should stay."

"Nah, they don't need us for any more interviews. We'll split the driving and be home before daylight. I have to pick up Ben from day care tomorrow, and I'll have time for a nap."

"C'mere, then."

You know the sound of people kissing when you hear it, and you want to keep listening – you were born nosy – but instead you're floating away again. The rhythmic beeping of monitors and the clicking of the machines are lulling you back to sleep. Lisbon. You want to talk with Lisbon. To explain. But you're so tired. Later…

ZZZZZZZ

The hypnotic whir of the machines is the first thing you hear as your consciousness returns. You sense someone is standing beside you – beside your bed. Even though you know she's mad, you can't wait to see her face.

Your eyelids flutter and blink and you squint, peering into the bright lights and tangles of tubes between you and the ceiling tiles. There is a human form beside you, and you blink again in disbelief when you see Brett Stiles standing there, looking at you intently. His face is drawn and pinched, and his eyes are puffy.

"Ah, Patrick, there you are. At last."

His presence takes you off guard, and your first response is fear. You were expecting to see Lisbon's angry but lovely face.

"Surprised to see me, are you? Your colleagues aren't here yet – it's not even six in the morning,"

You attempt to sit up – a mistake. Your back has other ideas and you have to bite your lip to keep from groaning.

"Easy there, Patrick, I won't be long. I have a plane to catch shortly. I'm here because you finally got your man. You stopped Red John." Stiles pauses to take a slow, deep breath and he makes you wait for the next part.

"But you see, Patrick, you've made me deeply sad in the process. Because Brett Partridge was my son."

Okay. You didn't see that one coming.

"Yes, I know. Hard to believe. You no doubt think I should have turned him in years ago, but I never gave up the notion he might stop some day. I think he might have – he tried, you know -when you killed that Carter fellow, but then you let that other killer call him out again. You of all people knew he couldn't stand to be demeaned in public."

Stiles gets a faraway look in his eye as he continues. "My son had disturbing proclivities from his earliest days, Patrick. My wife died when he was eleven, and they became more pronounced after that. I did the best I could. One of the reasons I started those farms when he was a young man was in the hopes that the hard work and exposure to nature might help him release his demons. Sadly, it did not."

You realize Stiles looks ten years older than he did the last time you saw him. Something in him has broken. And _that_, you understand.

"I know he was doing horrible things, but he was my son. Did you know he envied you, Patrick? You looked into the darkness and stepped back, and he admired what he considered your misguided bravery." He glances out the window before looking back at you. "I'm not sure why I wanted you to know, but I did. I hope on a parental level you might understand. Of course, I'll ask you to keep this confidential."

You consider this, but you know as you look at a fellow grieving father that you will honor his request. You nod. "I'm sorry," you croak softly, through dry lips, "for your loss."

"Thank you," Stiles sighs heavily and adds, "I hope your injuries heal quickly. Alas, Mr. Jane, you were the better man." And then he disappears out the door, leaving you alone with the beeps and whirs as the sun streams through your open blinds.

It seems like forever before a nurse appears. She is efficient and purposeful but her prefab smile never reaches her eyes. "I see we're having some discomfort this morning." Her demeanor screams 'controlling and patronizing.' Unhappy marriage, you guess. Plus the responsibility of unplanned children, most likely.

"We are?" you ask, in no mood to be treated like a child.

"Needn't be grouchy," she 'tisks' you, and dials up your IV drip. Soon everything matters less and you float away again.

ZZZZZZZ

Sometime later a doctor and his entourage crowd in and explain your situation. Bullet in through your side, out through your back. CT scans, injured kidney, lucky it missed your spine. No operation. Blah blah blah. No more bleeding. Don't strain yourself. Don't talk loudly. Don'tDon'tDon't. You pay attention when he says you might be out of the hospital in three or four days. Finally he asks if you need anything and you mention a cup of tea.

Amazingly, they bring you one. You find yourself staring at a bowl of so called "broth" and sipping bad hospital tea out of a Styrofoam cup. Normally, this would pose a serious affront to your very being, but the knowledge that you have finally stopped Red John is sinking in and that trumps even this poorest excuse for a cup of tea.

You give your wedding ring a little twist. Red John is dead - it's true this time. You think your good mood is unshakable when you see Lisbon walk in. The immediate relief on her face is followed closely by a scowl. You're infinitely happy to see her, even though you know what's coming.

"Good afternoon, Lisbon." May as well try to start pleasantly.

"God knows, I'm glad to see you're doing okay," she says sincerely, but affection is conspicuously absent from her voice. She's angry and you understand why. Nothing you hadn't anticipated.

"And how are you?" you venture carefully.

"How am I? I cannot believe you did this to me," she attacks with uncharacteristic venom. "You agreed. We're partners. You promised me, Jane."

"I'm truly sorry, Lisbon, but please, let me explain," you plead. You knew it was going to be bad, but you fear you may have underestimated her reaction.

"How long did you know it was Partridge?" she asks, fairly spitting nails. "A fact you didn't see fit to share with me. Weeks?"

"I didn't know until noon the day before, Teresa. I swear. I was in line for a sandwich and someone behind me called Partridge to tell him they were having chili verde the next day. The guy said Partridge loved it because it reminded him of a diner he used to frequent as a young man. And it just clicked, Lisbon. Ella's Diner, there in Elliston, where the farm was. Remember? The chili verde?"

"Help me understand this, Jane. You went with this plan because of a food preference? Unbelievable!"

You must admit, it sounds a bit weak when you repeat it. But still. "Well, that and something Partridge said at the Marsha Pittman crime scene. I overheard him tell someone that the killing didn't look like a 'cheap imitation' of Red John. That nagged at me but I didn't put it together until I learned about the chili verde. "Cheap imitation"' is exactly how Red John described what those film kids did. Remember the ones that wrapped me in bubble wrap?"

Her expression has not changed one iota.

"I had to move quickly, Lisbon. I knew Partridge would be at CBI the next day and I had very little time to put together a plan."

"Without me." Her eyes blaze and her mouth is set in that way that means she's past furious. "Put together the plan _without me."_

"Partridge had to be certain you were at the CBI, or he would never have bought the idea. He would have suspected a trap. He would assume you'd be in on it, if there was a plan."

"Well, **I** certainly assumed that."

"See! And here I thought you'd be pleased I didn't just shoot him."

"You can't be serious."

Actually, you are. A little.

She continues to rant. "You could have told me the plan! Dammit, Jane."

"No, I couldn't." You try to keep your voice even and your explanation calm. "Because you would never have agreed to stay there and let Van Pelt do the dirty work." You meet her piercing gaze. "Would you have?"

"No, because the plan was too risky."

"I rest my case. And I'd like to point out that the plan worked, Teresa." You raise a finger in emphasis. "Proof's in the pudding!"

Her body language hasn't softened at bit, and you know she's not nearly done. "I just spent the morning telling the brass I knew about your crazy plan and that I approved it, Jane. Because otherwise the team would be suspended for insubordination and I would be the agent who has no control over her team."

You hadn't really considered that aspect, you admit. You clearly need to take a different angle with this, because your attempt at logical explanation hasn't helped your cause one whit. Her anger seems to be building rather than decreasing. "I'm sorry. I couldn't think of any other way to catch him. I didn't have a lot of time." You suspect it's not the right moment for you to mention that you had to keep her safe.

"Jane." In a word, her tone has transformed from 'simply furious' to 'hurt and betrayed', which is light years more distressing to you. "You let me read a fake suicide note. You wanted me think it was real. How could you do that to me?" She looks away to keep from losing it.

"I'm genuinely sorry it had to go that far, Teresa. If LaRoche had kept you in the meeting, that would never have been necessary."

"Necessary?! Can you hear yourself, you son of a bitch? I've had it. Lord knows, I'm glad Red John is gone, but I can't just shrug this off. How could you do this to me?" she repeats.

Maybe it's the drugs that have you off your game, because in exasperation, you quip, "Too bad Partridge was such a poor marksman, eh?" It's a cheap shot and you want to pull the words back the instant they escape from your lips, because she explodes.

"Don't you dare try your pity party on me, Jane! That's low and horrible, even for you, and I don't know if I ever want to look at your sorry face again, you manipulative jerk!" She's shouting now, and a nurse appears in the doorway, looking concerned.

"Please, ma'am, you're going to upset Mr. Jane. It's important that his blood pressure not be raised, and that he gets some rest."

"Oh, Mr. Jane is important all right. Especially to himself. I'm going back to Sacramento!" Lisbon snarls. She abruptly twirls around and nearly knocks the nurse over as she bolts out the door.

This is far, far worse than you anticipated.

"Are you okay, Mr. Jane?" the dutiful nurse asks.

"Never better," you lie, and when she's gone, you fix your gaze on the empty vinyl chair beside your bed. You sense that this will not simply blow over with time, and you must do something. Say something. You know you've hurt her deeply, but for the life of you, you can't think of a better plan, even in retrospect. It's maddening. An attempt to rearrange yourself in bed reminds you acutely of the oppressive, throbbing pain in your back.

You want Lisbon to come back, so she can hear the truth. "I had to keep you safe, Teresa! I had to!" your frustrated words echo unheard within the hollow confines of your room. Your hand accidentally brushes against the Styrofoam cup, spilling tea across the tray and onto your sheets. The movement required to mop it up brings on new levels of misery, and you must abandon the effort and lie still in frustration.

You close your eyes and realize you're alone again. Unbearably alone.

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Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked it. The title comes from chess, and describes the situation when a player has only the king left on the board. The next chapter will definitely be the conclusion. Lisbon is a good detective, and that's all I'm saying for now.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't own The Mentalist or any of these characters. No copyright infringement is intended, and thanks for letting me borrow them, Mr. Heller.

AN: A massive thank you to all the readers who left comments, and also to the readers who just took the time to stick with this story. I know this is/was a difficult read, and if it's any consolation, it was hard for me to write as well. (that may be all too obvious) I always appreciate any constructive feedback, good or bad. And somebody please smack me if I start another story in second person. Hope you enjoy the conclusion:

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Rematch

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It's two days later and you haven't had a single visitor. The team is six hours away after all, you tell yourself, but the nurse denies that anyone has phoned the desk to inquire about you either. On the bright side, your physical condition is improving rapidly, and you've managed to ambulate – medspeak for walk - around the ward several times today. The knowledge that your family's killer is finally dead sustains you, of course. Still, a word from _someone_ might be nice.

You've never liked being in hospitals. Aside from the fact that it means something unpleasant has happened, being confined is so tiresome and boring. A flip through the TV channels reveals no nature programs on at this hour, and you're too tired to 'ambulate' any more today. You're considering watching "Wheel of Fortune" when your phone rings, saving you from such an act of desperation. You smile in relief, and reach eagerly to answer the landline.

"Hello!" you chirp, expecting to greet a still furious Lisbon.

"Hello, Jane? Gale Bertram here."

If there's one person you don't want to talk to right now, it's Bertram. His ugly mug has been all over the television news, accepting numerous congratulations to the department for "ridding the state of the notorious serial killer known as Red John." Being the self serving blowfish of a bureaucrat that he is, he hasn't mentioned Lisbon once.

"I just wanted to thank you for your part in your team's outstanding work – bringing Red John to justice. I understand your wounds will leave you without any permanent injury, and I hope you are well on your way to a full recovery."

There is a grocery list of things you want to say to this annoying waste of space, but all of them would get Lisbon into trouble. Definitely not the path you need to walk at this point, so you squeeze out a "Thank you, Bertram." You can't make yourself call him 'Director'. You have your limits, even now.

A "Wheel of Fortune" and a Galapagos Islands special later, your phone rings again. _Finally,_ you think, and a big grin spreads over your face as you answer, "Patrick Jane's room. Patrick speaking."

"Jane?"

There's no one there to see your face fall. "Hello, Grace."

"I was calling to see how you're doing."

"That's kind of you. Better every day, thank you."

She hesitates. "We thought Lisbon had been checking on you, but I asked her how you were this afternoon and she said she wouldn't know. I guess she's still pretty upset."

"Yes, so it seems. It's okay, Grace, it's understandable. I can't blame her."

"We – the team – wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I'm doing fine. I know Lisbon is still unhappy with me, and I understand her point of view. I did what I had to do, and I'll live with the consequences."

"Well….okay. Hey, if you need anything, just let us know."

"Thanks again, Grace, I appreciate that."

"Bye." You ease the receiver slowly onto its cradle and sigh.

You've considered calling Lisbon to ask her if she will pick you up tomorrow when you're released. But…well…it's six hours each way and your car is already here in Malibu, sitting in front of your house. _And_ you're terrified she'll say "no." There's that.

No, you need to go it alone this time. Your solitary confinement has provided plenty of time to contemplate some unpleasant truths. It's not that you don't have a tremendous sense of closure – you've finally done what you've dedicated ten years of your life to doing. And that feels good. Deeply, profoundly good.

But it's not that simple. For years you told yourself you were doing this for Angela and Charlotte. Gradually, you've faced the fact that isn't true. They've been dead for ten years and they don't care – they're gone forever. In fact, you're pretty sure Angela would have been horrified at the way you've spent the last ten years of your life. She would have called you pathetic, and she would have had a point.

No, you've stuck with it because you had to. For you. It gave you a reason to walk out of the psych hospital. A motivation to get up every day. A purpose. A warped, twisted quest for some measure of redemption for a man who couldn't provide the most basic of needs for his family – keeping them safe. So now what? In the process of getting your revenge, you've hurt and alienated the only person in the world who knows you and genuinely cares about you. Maybe you should make that past tense. Cared.

You're trying to keep a calm head about this. After waiting ten years for your retribution, surely you can wait while Lisbon has time to think about this whole situation more logically -until she can understand and accept that you had no other options. But there's the rub. You're not sure she'll ever understand, and that's what has your insides in a knot. Your guts are telling you this time is different. That you've disappointed and hurt her one too many times. The worst part of it is, you must acknowledge the possibility that she's right. In the long term, might she be better off if you went your separate ways? There's a knock at the door, and a social worker enters the room, interrupting your ruminations.

"Mr. Jane, the doctor has written an order for your release tomorrow afternoon, and I'm here to see if you need any help with your discharge planning."

_ Orders, always ordering, those doctors._

"I understand you're from Sacramento, so do you have someone to take you home tomorrow afternoon?"

"Actually, I have a house here in Malibu, and I'm planning to stay there for a few days." _That sounds much more acceptable than 'I may be on my own now and I'd best get used to it.'_

"Do you have someone who can stay with you for a few days? It will be easier for you if you have some help getting around, to assist with meals and so forth."

The Citroen is waiting at your house. You can take a cab there and then drive it somewhere to check into a hotel. You'll manage. "Yes, I've got everything arranged."

"You'll need follow up in three weeks for a repeat CT scan, but you can have that done in Sacramento if you prefer. Dr. Garvin has an 'in network' colleague that he can refer you to."

"I'm not sure yet how long I'll be staying in Malibu. Can I call for an appointment when I know where I'll be for certain?"

"Of course, that will be fine. I'll put the numbers right here on your discharge papers, and you can give us a call when you know your plans. Please tell whoever is picking you up tomorrow to be here by three at the latest."

"I'll be sure to do that. Thank you." This will work. You'll be fine.

At one am you're still awake, staring at your phone.

ZZZZZ

The bottoms of the green XL sweat pants pool around your ankles as you place your worn shoes on the footrests of the wheelchair. A twenty something nurse's aide is wheeling you out to the curb, and she is much too polite to mention that your aqua tee shirt clashes badly with the pants.

Last night, you enlisted the help of a hospital volunteer who was willing to rustle you up some clothes, since your shoes and your keys were the only things that weren't too bloody to save. The helpful fellow hadn't mentioned he was color blind, but at least your attire is loose and nonbinding, just as you requested.

If Lisbon were here, she'd say you looked homeless. You are, kind of.

When you motion to the waiting cab, the nurse's aide protests. Her nametag reads "Betty", and unless you're badly mistaken, she lives alone with her cat and devours romance novels, waiting for that perfect man. She's considered online dating, but she's afraid it will make her seem desperate.

"Oh, we can't just send you out in a cab, Mr. Jane. Don't you have someone to pick you up?"

There is no way you are spending another minute in this place. "Not to worry, Betty. My wife called thirty minutes ago and it seems my daughter has a sore throat. She's just gone down for a nap and my wife doesn't want to wake her, so I told her I'd take a cab. It's not far." She checks the local address on your forms and notes your wedding ring.

"I can give her a call if you'd like to talk to her," you offer, "but the instructions seem clear." You rattle the papers you've been given, and flash her a full wattage smile.

"Well…" she hums, undecided. "No. I guess that won't be necessary. It's not far, as you say."

"Not at all. Oh, and Betty – you should give that online dating service a call and stop waiting for Mr. Perfect.

"Okay," she smiles timidly. You've hit the bulls eye.

"Excellent." And with that, you and your papers are on your way.

Twenty minutes later, you've carefully maneuvered yourself out of the cab and you're standing in your driveway, staring at your car. It's sitting exactly where you left it, and there are few exterior signs of what went down here a mere four days ago.

Your better judgment warns you should get into your car, drive to a hotel, and order room service. Instead, you ascend the front steps and enter your house. Crime scene tape remains at the foot of the stairs, but you don't feel like climbing them anyway. Any chairs are long gone, so you walk into the kitchen and flip on a light. Someone – probably forensics - has left a box of latex gloves on the island. You drop your papers beside the box and rest your hands on the cool granite.

It's a little bit dusty. The once a month maid service you have contracted must be due soon. There are no towels, so you pull a glove onto your hand and sweep it over the surface, exposing the shine of the richly colored stone.

Annie loved these counter tops. You recall the day you spent with her at the cabinet shop, picking out what she wanted. She was glowing and pregnant, and she couldn't decide between this and a tri color marble. Your throat tightens at the memory, and you force your thoughts back to the present.

Your back is starting to twinge and you're going to have to sit down soon. You pull the glove off, but the sticky latex hangs on your wedding ring. You pause to ponder your ring – the constant and effective reminder of your last ten years' mission. "He's dead, Annie," you say on impulse. "We finally got him." You know she's not here, and you don't believe she can hear you, but it feels good to tell her just the same. "The next time I'm at a carnival, I'll thread it on the outside horse's reins, okay?"

Even after years of carnival life, your wife never lost her enchantment with merry-go-rounds. You can still picture her hair flowing behind her as she leans out, eyes shining, always riding that outside horse and trying to catch the rings as she goes by. You look down and realize this must be done quickly, like a Band aid, so you slip the ring off and into your pocket in one expeditious motion.

"I'm sorry, Annie." A tear rolls down your cheek and you know you need to let this place go and never come back. But not yet. Just a little longer. You want to stay just a little longer. You wander around the empty rooms, and open the back door. Today is one of those pensive weather days, alternating between sunshine and billowing clouds, and your tee shirt offers little resistance against the chilly breeze.

You check the back closet and sure enough, there's that old blue blanket. A glance through the back glass reveals a lawn chair with a couple of broken webbings on the porch, and soon you're parked in the dilapidated chair out on the back lawn with the blanket pulled around your shoulders.

You have no clear notion of where you should go or what you should do, but the afternoon air is refreshing after days of being cooped up in the hospital. If you sit here awhile, maybe you can figure out a plan. This back yard holds so many memories, and in a few moments, you're back in time and Charlotte is taking her first steps over there in front of the blooming hibiscus.

You spend the next hour in limbo, alternating between reliving precious memories and trying not to face the possibility that your partnership with Lisbon might be over. Maybe it's better this way, you consider. Ironically, it's not your wife's words of wisdom that you recall, but rather Madeleine Hightower's: "No one is better off alone, Patrick."

Your back starts to complain loudly enough to return your focus to your present physical concerns. You'd love to have a nice couch to nap on. And a hot cup of tea. You're contemplating the effort it's going to require for you to get up and go find someplace warm, when you hear quiet steps behind you. You know those steps, and your heart rate doubles.

She stops ten feet to your side, and peers out onto the lawn instead of looking at you. "Why didn't you call me? To pick you up." There's no anger in her voice, but there's a strange vibe about her. You want to see her face so you can decipher her thoughts.

"I didn't know if you would come." It's the truth.

"I went to the hospital. They told me you'd gone home to your wife and daughter."

"I had to get out of there."

"So you lied?" There's a bitter edge to her question.

You blow out a breath. Sort of. Maybe not. No, not really. "I'm quite sure Grace told you I was fine. Why'd you come?"

There's something off, something unsettled in her posture. She's still upset but it's not from pure fury like it was the other day. You need more information.

You ease yourself up to stand, letting the blanket fall in the chair, and she turns to face you. "Are you okay, Teresa?" you ask, because now that you see her, she doesn't look okay. Emotions are blowing across her face like fast moving clouds. Anger. Fright. Confusion. Pain.

"I ran into JJ LaRoche this morning," she says. She's going someplace with this. There's something she wants to know.

"Yeah?" How's JJ?"

"He told me about your visit the other day, to ask a favor. He told me you'd stopped by his office _first thing in the morning_. The day _before_ he called me into his office."

Uh oh. Teresa is a good detective, above all else.

"The thing is, you told me you didn't know about Partridge until noon that day, Jane. Was that another lie?"

She's expecting a "yes", you can tell. You figure things might go better if you say 'yes.' But you can't. You can't lie to her ever again. Not about something important. Your reply comes out as a whisper. "No."

You watch the bottom drop out for Teresa Lisbon, and for a second or two you think she might actually fall. "That means…my God…Jane." She doesn't complete her statement, but her hand rises in slow motion to cover her mouth. There are a myriad of emotions swirling around in her head, and you feel strangely like a game show contestant, holding your breath and hoping that spinning wheel stops on the slice that says, "Understanding."

No such luck – she looks devastated - and you drop your eyes to the ground, ashamed that you've caused her such pain. The bottoms of your sweat pants blouse out so far at your ankles that they completely obscure your shoes. It should be funny, but it's not.

Her voice quivers as she asks for confirmation. "The note was real?"

Again you whisper, "Yes."

"Oh, Jane. I didn't…Why?"

It dawns on you that when she thought you'd written the note as merely part of the scheme, she was angry at what she saw as callousness on your part – that she was allowed to read the note simply for effect. Now that she knows that wasn't the case, it might change things. Maybe you can make her understand.

Her father killed himself – an act she attributes to his self pity. But this isn't the same scenario. She needs to know that, and your head snaps up defensively. You weren't abandoning her - you were trying to save her. Your reasons were logical.

"You were next, Teresa. That's why. And it wasn't your call."

"You couldn't know that," she counters, her anger flaring again. "I could have been a target from the beginning, but I've managed to stay alive."

"You were next. I'm sure of it."

"Nope. Not buying that."

"It was true," you insist, raising your voice a bit. Can she really not connect the dots on this? "He said so up in the bedroom." Surely she's listened to the recordings.

She presses her point. "But you couldn't know that _in advance_."

"Don't you see?" Your volume is increasing with your frustration. "All the killings were connected to my happy memories, and they were in chronological order. First LeeLee Barlow. Then Caroline, at Don Pedro Lake. Marsha Pittman next, and then Sophie."

"Sophie Miller was ten years ago, Jane. A lot has happened since then. His next victim could have been a lot of people, not just me," she insists. She's still convinced she's correct.

A snort escapes you. You're going to have to spell it out for her. "After Sophie was killed, I sat down and tried to figure out who would be next. And it _had_ to be you, Teresa. I was one hundred percent sure."

"You couldn't know for sure."

"Yes, I could!" You look her straight in the eye. "Because every significant happy memory I've had in the last ten years involved you. Every. Single. One." There it is. "You were next."

Her lips part and her eyes widen in shock. _You wanted honestly, Lisbon, well you're getting it. _You figure you know where this is headed, and you rush to head it off. "I knew you'd insist that you could defend yourself, and maybe you were right. Maybe he would have come after you and you would have killed him instead." You angle your head, conceding the point, but your voice retains its edge. "But what if something went wrong? What if he succeeded?"

She counters with that old familiar mantra. "Then so be it. I'm an officer of the law."

You're so very tired of that phrase that you completely lose your cool. "I couldn't take that chance! Damn it, Lisbon!" you shout.

She stares at you intently. You've never yelled at her before. Not like this.

You take a deep breath and compose yourself, lowering your voice. "You're right, you see. I _am_ a selfish bastard. Nothing but a charlatan who couldn't even protect his own family. But I'll be damned if I'd allow another person I love to be taken, knowing that I could prevent it. If he'd gotten you, Teresa, I'd be back in that locked room, and this time it would have been for good. There was only one way I could protect you. One way. Without me, he had no reason to hurt you. I was doing anything _but _abandoning you." You're pleading now. "Please, Teresa. Please see that I had no choice."

"You meant what you said in the note?" she asks.

That you love her? That she's been the single bright spot in your life during these ten years of hell? You hate hearing the anguish in her voice. This isn't how you wanted her to know. "Of course. Did you ever really doubt that I love you, Teresa? Did you learn anything you didn't already know?"

She's ten feet away but you can see her trembling. You give her a small smile and a shrug. You've played your cards.

She begins with a couple of small steps, closing the distance between you deliberately, unsure. But soon she's standing in front of you, close enough to touch, and for the first time ever, she's the one who pulls you into her arms in a hug.

You close your eyes in gratitude, and lay your head on her shoulder as you return her embrace. This. This is what you needed. What was missing. She is warm and alive and smells of hazelnut coffee, and you can hear her sniffling softly as her arms tighten around you. You know this discussion isn't over, but she at least understands now, and that is huge.

"Shhhh. It's okay now," you murmur. You wonder if you're telling her or yourself.

You hold each other for several minutes, both hesitant to let go, but your strength is starting to ebb. The throbbing in your back has become too insistent to ignore any longer.

"Teresa, I'm sorry. I need to lie down."

"Oh," she releases you and glances around. "Where? How? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, just a bit creaky."

You sway slightly as she releases you and she reaches to steady you. "Whoa, there," she says, and flashes the first smile you've seen in forever.

"Just put that," you motion behind you toward the blue blanket on the chair, "down here on the grass."

She hastily spreads out the blanket and helps you ease down onto it, and you sigh heavily in relief when you're finally flat.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asks.

"Just need a little lie down, that's all." You pat the blanket. "Here, rest with me? We can watch the clouds."

"What are we, ten?" she chides, but she stretches out beside you, and you reach for her hand.

"Thank you, Teresa." For the blanket. For trying to understand. For the last ten years. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

"You can just keep on saying that," she says, but she's smiling, and you notice how adorable she looks with her puffy eyes and tousled hair.

You give her hand a squeeze, and a fleeting look of surprise on her face tells you she notices your ring is gone. She turns to you, questioning.

"It was time, Teresa."

She doesn't comment on the ring, but asks, "Do you feel satisfied now that Red John is dead?"

"Yes, I do. But I'm also glad you're here. I was afraid I'd lost you."

"I believe that's _my_ line," she quips. She's still not okay with what you'd planned of course, but ironically, it's better that you actually meant it.

You lie together in silence for a few minutes, and then you point upward, "See? There. That cloud? It's JJ LaRoche," you say, and you both laugh, because it really does look like him. "JJ was supposed to keep you there longer, Lisbon. What happened?"

"LaRoche is a terrible liar. He came up with some bogus crap about surveillance rules but I could tell he was nervous about something. So I stopped him right then and there and threatened to tell everybody what's in his Tupperware."

"Ah. Nice bluff."

"Oh, it wasn't a bluff."

"You know what's in the Tupperware?"

"Yes, I do. I did a little detective work after that last incident."

"And you didn't tell me?" You're a little hurt, honestly, though as much stuff as you've kept from her you certainly have no right.

"You didn't tell _me_," she points out.

"I didn't know. How could I tell you?"

"Maybe _I_ need a few secrets. Speaking of secrets, where did you get that Glock?"

"The parking lot of the _Classy Lady Lounge_."

"Nice. When did you have the time?"

"I've had it awhile."

"Really?"

"Since I got Lorelei's DVD."

She thinks about that a moment, and decides not to ask. The seriousness returns to her face. "Promise me you'll never think about anything like….that…again."

"No more guns. Promise."

"Jane!"

"Okay. I'll talk about it with you first."

"Jane."

"Okay," you agree. "You have to understand, I wasn't thrilled with the idea. I had no other options."

"Not true. You could have waited and hoped we would catch him."

_This again?_ "I've done little else but try to do just that for the last ten years, Lisbon. To think that we would be able to do that in time allotted would be…well…arrogant on my part, don't you think? My arrogance got my family killed, Teresa. I wasn't going to make that mistake again. I know your faith prohibits the whole idea, but I need for you to see I simply had no other choice."

Instead of more frowning and angry looks, a smug, serene smile spreads over her face.

"What?" you ask, puzzled.

"The night after Sophie Miller was killed, I went to church, you know. I prayed for you. I think my prayers were answered."

"Just because you put a dollar into a Coke machine doesn't mean the machine makes it into a Coke, Lisbon." As you speak, you release her hand and feel around underneath you. Just as you feared, the dressing covering your back is soaking wet.

"I can't believe you're dissing something that may have saved your life."

"Can we have this conversation some other time?"

"You know my faith is important to me, Jane. I know you don't share my beliefs, but there's no need to dismiss my point of view."

"It's not that, Lisbon, honestly."

"What then?" She's irritated all over again.

"I think I need to go back to the hospital."

"What?"

You motion toward your side and she sits up so she can take a look. "Oh my God."

"Exactly."

She reaches for her phone.

"Don't panic, Lisbon. I feel fine." That's not totally true, but you're done with sirens.

"I'll call 911."

"No, just get me into your car," you request as you roll over and gingerly climb to your feet. Your tee shirt sticks to your back as you stand, and you realize you've sprung a significant leak. Maybe you should have noticed this earlier. Still, no ambulances this time.

She's unsure for a moment, but common sense prevails and she offers a hand to steady you as you begin to walk. "It's shorter to go this way" you point out," around the house." When you're even with the hibiscus bush, you pause. "Charlotte took her first steps right here."

Her smile is bittersweet. "I'm glad you have happy memories left, Jane," she says, but then she tugs at your arm. Ever the practical one, your Lisbon.

You sweep your eyes over the back yard for the last time. You'll never come back here. Never see this spot again. You have to let it go.

Soon you're lying in the back seat of Lisbon's car, doing your level best not to vomit on her upholstery.

ZZZZZZ

It was like déjà vu all over again. IV's and monitors, nurses scurrying about looking worried, CT scans, doctors poking and prodding and yelling orders. But now it's the next morning, and everyone's smiling again. Apparently, you were bleeding from a superficial vessel that had opened up from putting too much stress on the sutures. They managed to get that stopped, so other than being down a few more points on your blood count, you're good to go again.

The morning sun is streaming in your blinds just like before, and you're washing down some pills with that same disgusting tea out of a Styrofoam cup. But when you look around your room, Teresa Lisbon is right there, asleep in the vinyl chair beside your bed.

You don't need a doctor's diagnosis to know you've taken a turn for the better.

THE END

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AN: I'd love to hear your comments, especially on whether the ending worked for you. I had another 1,000 words tacked after that last scene, and it never felt right, so I axed them. Thanks again for reading. I can pretty much guarantee that the next story I decide to write will be fluffy and light and happy. Cheers!


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